A Thousand Words

Below is the poem entitled A Thousand Words which was written by poet
victor
dixon. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.

A Thousand Words

Tried to take a picture, but the world wouldn’t sit still
and I don’t have the breath for a thousand words.
Fantasizing what I have to say, knowing I never will -
subordinate to suppressive hands like a caged bird.
I don’t have the breath for a thousand words;
my thoughts scared off what I wanted to say.
Subordinate to suppressive hands like a caged bird;
I licked my lips, but choked on the bait.
My thoughts scared off what I wanted to say;
I’m steady as a punching bag.
I licked my lips, but choked on the bait;
still fetch bones, but my tail won’t wag.
I’m steady as a punching bag
absorbing the tears of the mistreated.
Still fetch bones, but my tail won’t wag;
it’s what they fed us yesterday, just reheated.
Always run away before I’m mistreated
and I don’t have time for a sympathetic smile.
It’s the same dish reheated;
seeing the truth makes me long for denial.
I don’t have time for a sympathetic smile;
I’m in the undertow of the mainstream.
Facing the truth makes me pine for denial,
because all that talent was just a wet dream.
I’m in the undertow of the mainstream
driving from point A to point B pointlessly.
All the promise was just a wet dream,
and no TV ad sells the product to comfort me.
Driving from point A to point B pointlessly,
an influx of indifference invading my head.
No TV commercial can sell comfort to me,
so why buy a souvenir when you’ve been misled?
An influx of indifference invading my head,
eroding an apex of decaying dreams.
Why buy a souvenir when you’ve been misled,
saluting the generals and bowing to the queens?
Eroding an apex of decaying dreams,
a self-fulfilling prophecy with outstretched hands.
Saluting the generals and bowing to the queens,
forfeiting free will for a slice of the promised land.
A self-fulfilling prophecy with outstretched hands
vowing sacrifice will be compensated.
My shoes are homesick for foreign lands –
a spot where therapists haven’t migrated.
Vowing sacrifice will be compensated,
followed my heart overseas
to where therapists haven’t yet migrated;
the weight left my chest and dissolved in the breeze.
Stalked my smile overseas;
sold my suitcase at the train station.
Tasted the wind and exhaled the breeze;
my finger wrote my will in condensation.
Sold my suitcase at the train station,
the masses were left to inherit my will.
Flipped a coin for a destination,
captured the words while the world sat still.